


Lessons

by cirnelle



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Flirting, Fluff, Humor, Illya wtf, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 12:22:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7892182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cirnelle/pseuds/cirnelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How to pass the time while one waits for an opportune moment to escape from one’s T.H.R.U.S.H. captors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [theniftycat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/theniftycat/pseuds/theniftycat) for all the help with Russian translations!

 

 

“Well,” said Napoleon. He was currently seated rather uncomfortably on a dilapidated wooden chair, hands pulled back behind the chair and tied tightly together, effectively binding him to the chair. His ankles were bound together as well.

“Well,” echoed Illya. He was in a similar predicament, seated opposite Napoleon and facing him, bound to his own chair. The room they were in was bare, the glaring fluorescent lights overhead reflecting harshly off the dull grey concrete walls. The only visible feature of the room, apart from the steel door, was the wide reflective pane stretching across the wall behind Illya and facing Napoleon. Napoleon was almost a hundred percent sure that that was a one-way mirror.

“This again,” sighed Illya. “When will they learn that we always escape, sooner or later?”

“We can’t escape until someone comes to try to interrogate us,” Napoleon pointed out. “I hate this part,” he grumbled. “Waiting is boring.”

Illya shrugged. “Let us make it more interesting, then. What would you like to talk about?”

“Hmm,” said Napoleon. “You’ve already told me all the office gossip.” He pondered briefly, then perked up. “Oh! You can give me a Russian lesson.”

“You could do with the practice,” agreed Illya. “Your accent is horrendous.”

“It’s not _that_ bad,” protested Napoleon. “ _Anyway_. So if I were, hmm, bringing a Russian woman out on a date, what should I say to her?”

“Where you would find a Russian woman to date?” scoffed Illya. “Russians are not very popular in America right now, as I am sure you are aware.”

“Humor me,” said Napoleon, winking at his partner. “So if I wanted to impress my date by speaking some Russian…”

“You and your women,” grumbled Illya. He eyed Napoleon speculatively.

“What?” said Napoleon.

“Nothing,” said Illya. “Shall we begin?” He paused, then tipped his head to the side thoughtfully. “I believe your dates usually begin with you picking the lady up at her place. Hmm...you take her hand, and, bringing it to your lips, tell her how perfect she looks. На тебе отлично сидит это платье.” _You look lovely in that dress._

Napoleon repeated the phrase obediently. Illya nodded in approval.

“Then,” he said, “you bring her to a nice restaurant for dinner. French – always a good choice.” He regarded Napoleon attentively, lips curving in a small smile. “Lutèce, I think. I do believe that is one of your favorite date restaurants.”

Napoleon grinned back, slightly sheepish. He’d indeed brought quite a few dates to Lutèce, one of New York’s finest French restaurants – he hadn’t realized his partner had been paying quite so much attention to his dating habits. He had, in fact, also brought _Illya_ to that very same restaurant. The attentive service and old-world elegance of Lutèce was always a surefire way to impress the lady he was dining with, and once he’d taken his first bite of the restaurant’s famous braised lamb, he’d known without a doubt that he _had_ to bring Illya there, too.

His thrifty partner would never have willingly eaten at a restaurant in this price range on his own, so Napoleon had dragged him there on his birthday and insisted on treating him. Nobody enjoyed good food more than Illya, and while Lutèce was not inexpensive and Illya tended to eat approximately twice what Napoleon’s dates usually did, watching Illya enjoy his food was a joy all its own and well worth the drain on his wallet. Napoleon smiled fondly at the memory.

“You enjoy the dinner very much,” continued Illya, interrupting Napoleon’s thoughts. “Conversation flows freely, and the food and wine are excellent. Your date is beautiful, smart and witty, and very interested in you. You tell her how much you’ve been looking forward to seeing her. Я думал о тебе весь день.” _I’ve been thinking about you all day._

" _Ya dumal o tebe ves' den',_ " Napoleon repeated, still slightly distracted by the memory of his dinner with Illya at Lutèce. The food and wine had been excellent then, too - as had the company (despite Illya lavishing almost as much attention on his côte de bœuf as he had on Napoleon).

“You are so absorbed in your companion that the evening passes more quickly than you expect, and you are taken by surprise when the meal draws to a close. You are both pleasantly full, yet – shall we say – not completely... _sated_. She glances up at you coyly, clearly reluctant for the evening to come to an end. As you help her with her coat, she brushes against you, and in each lingering touch, in her lowered lashes and the curve of her lips is the promise of...something _more_.”

Illya’s voice had gone low, husky. He slanted a glance up at Napoleon, eyes half-lidded beneath slightly over-long blond bangs.

“As you step outside the restaurant, arm in arm, she turns to you and tips her head up, pressing her lips to yours. Her lips are soft, tempting. You slip your arms around her waist and pull her close and she presses eagerly against you, parting her lips, sighing into your mouth...”

Illya shifted slightly in his chair, arranging himself more comfortably, and somehow managed to look as if he were _lounging_ in the uncomfortable wooden chair, sultry and inviting. Napoleon eyed him as if really _seeing_ his partner for the first time, cleared his throat dazedly and shifted slightly too, for an entirely different reason.

“But you do not do anything untoward...just _yet_ , of course,” murmured Illya silkily. “After all, you are still in _public_.” He made just the barest twitch of his head backward, toward the one-way mirror which T.H.R.U.S.H. was, no doubt, watching them through _at that very moment_.

“Ngh,” said Napoleon. He grit his teeth and manfully attempted his most bland, pleasant look for the benefit of their T.H.R.U.S.H. onlookers.

“The walk back to her place feels endless,” Illya continued, lashes lowered, “both of you aching to reach out, to _touch_ each other, but you hold yourselves back for the sake of propriety. When you finally reach her apartment, you barely have the door closed before she’s pressing you up against the door, kissing you fiercely, pushing your jacket off your shoulders. You reach around her to unzip her dress, murmuring into her hair, Мне так хорошо с тобою.” _I feel so good when I’m next to you._

“When you are both bare to each other,” said Illya, staring straight at Napoleon, “you duck your head to press kisses to smooth skin, her body flush against yours, warm and supple and willing. You say, Ты такой красивый.” _You are so beautiful._

As poor as Napoleon’s Russian was, it didn’t, however, escape him that Illya was using the _masculine_ word for ‘beautiful’, not the feminine. So they weren’t even bothering to pretend anymore, then. He sucked in a shaky breath.

Illya’s eyes left Napoleon’s enraptured gaze and trailed slowly, _agonizingly_ slowly, down the curve of his neck, then his chest, then lower still, and finally rested deliberately at his groin. His not-as-uninterested-as-it-should-be groin. Napoleon’s heart felt like it was beating out of his chest. He felt bare under those knowing eyes; every part of his body that Illya’s heated gaze had passed over was tingling. The small part of his mind that still deigned to function noted, with pleasure and no small amount of covetousness, that Illya was sporting a matching bulge in his own pants.

“Illya,” his voice cracked embarrassingly on the last syllable of his partner’s name. “Illya – ” he tried again, unsure how to voice what he hadn’t even _known_ he’d wanted until now –

The door slammed open, making Napoleon jump. Illya twitched slightly, but Napoleon wasn’t sure if it was his startled twitch or his irritated why-did-you-interrupt-me- _now_ twitch – the blood that was supposed to be in his brain was currently busy in other areas and forming a coherent thought was proving difficult.

Three T.H.R.U.S.H. strode into the room, the first one cracking his knuckles eagerly. The third one closed the door behind him.

Illya leapt to his feet, the tent in his pants and the rope binding his ankles together tightly hampering him not in the slightest, and threw himself enthusiastically at the nearest T.H.R.U.S.H.. He’d evidently been industriously working on the knots binding his wrists while distracting Napoleon with his seductive monologue, the sneaky bastard.

Napoleon glanced ruefully down at the bulge in his pants (rapidly wilting), tested the rope around his wrists and ankles for any give (none whatsoever), checked to see how Illya was handling the three T.H.R.U.S.H. on his own (effortlessly, why did Illya even need a partner again?) and sighed fatalistically. He stuck his bound legs out and tripped up one of the T.H.R.U.S.H. as the man raced past him and tried to dive at Illya.

Illya, meanwhile, had picked up the rickety wooden chair he’d been tied to, smashed it against the wall and was now wielding one of the legs like a baseball bat, waving it threateningly at the two T.H.R.U.S.H. advancing on him.

He ducked under the first man’s fist and swung the makeshift bat at the second man, knocking him out cold. As the man collapsed to the floor, unconscious, Illya dropped to the floor and, putting his weight on his arms, swiped his bound legs out, knocking the first T.H.R.U.S.H. to his knees. He swung the chair leg hard, bringing the man down instantly. He looked like he was having the time of his life.

The third T.H.R.U.S.H. goon, the one Napoleon had tripped, had gotten shakily to his feet and was slowly backing away from Illya. Illya grinned wildly. The man winced and made a break for the door, but Illya was faster than he was. He leapt at the man, bringing him to the ground, then punched him hard, knocking him out.

“I feel useless,” sighed Napoleon.

“I can think of a few uses for you,” responded Illya distractedly, missing Napoleon’s blush at his words. He was efficiently patting the nearest unconscious T.H.R.U.S.H. down, finally pulling a knife out from the man’s boot with a satisfied murmur.

After slicing through the ropes binding his ankles, Illya rose gracefully from the floor and went over to Napoleon, cutting his arms and legs free.

“Thank you,” said Napoleon, shaking his arms to try to restore some feeling to them.

“You are very welcome,” said Illya. “Любимый мой.” *

“ _LyubImiy moy_? What does that mean?” asked Napoleon, although he could hazard a guess, and he didn’t think he’d be too far off the mark.

“I’ve already taught you a lot today,” said Illya. “I think I will assign this one as homework.”

Napoleon grinned. Today’s lesson had been edifying in more ways than one, and he was already looking forward to the next one. Preferably in a _much_ more private setting.

 

 

\- End -

 

* “my sweetheart”

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Уроки](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13692576) by [BlueSunrise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSunrise/pseuds/BlueSunrise)
  * [Gifts for Cirnellie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14464722) by [JackyMedan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackyMedan/pseuds/JackyMedan)




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